


Everyday

by Saturniidae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Altered Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An abundance of tree metaphors, Angst, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Groundhog Day, M/M, Post-Canon, Reverse Omens, Whump, hurt/some comfort, universe-hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturniidae/pseuds/Saturniidae
Summary: When Crowley gets cursed to be trapped in purgatory for betraying Hell, he finds himself reliving Armageddon over and over again, with increasingly deadly results. He realizes that he has to figure out how to get to the only Armageddon that ended with everyone alive, whole, and happy.But how many choices make an Apocalypse? Hundreds, maybe thousands, maybe some were made before time existed—but how many lead to freedom? How many are ones he’s had to make?Meanwhile, Aziraphale is armed with a flaming broom, one former antichrist, a dog, and two of his favorite humans to try to guide Crowley back home.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 116





	1. branches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my Groundhog Day extravaganza, written for the Good Omens Big Bang!  
> Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful team: Snailcities who drew the BALLER art, which I only plastered across my phone screen and cried about twice a day, and Cheese, who had the honor (?) of being my beta! My _first_ official beta!  
> Without them, I would not have a shoddily photoshopped picture of Crowley with a mullet saved on my phone, some of the goofs in this fic, or the drive to finish this!  
> Big thanks to my wonderful friend Mags, who urged me to join the BB in the first place! 
> 
> Title is from Buddy Holly's Everyday because boy howdy. Feelings.

Picture the universe. No, bigger. Again. Again. 

Imagine the path your life takes. The choices, branching off and out, until you are where you stand. 

Now:

Imagine a tree. 

One of the great big ones, the ones you can drive a car through. (A shame, that was.) Imagine the rings, the breadth of the trunk, the years and years and years that one seedling spent growing, up and up and up and out. 

Imagine your life as a tree. Imagine the _universe_ as one. 

Imagine the seed it once came from. 

This is the Beginning. 

The first sprout, the Universe and the Earth. 

Roots: Hell. Then the trunk, spreading up and splitting into branches: the world, emerging into the unknown. Each branch splits infinitely, up and out, spreading into an intricate canopy of creation. 

Each branch is a new world, a new spread of choices, of outcomes. There is no end—if the top of the universe gets lopped off, then another branch will take over, slowly reaching up and up and up to the Heavens. Maybe one day, the meristem will reach its goal, but Heaven is always rising as well, with only the topmost branches stretching up to maybe scrape the belly of God. 

This, truly, is the Tree of Knowledge. The one in the Garden was simply the first branch of the full thing, an existence made entirely of _what if’s_ and _if this, then that’s._

It’s between these branches, these worlds that the demon Crowley finds himself.


	2. beginning

At first, Crowley thinks he’s dreaming. 

(It’s been widely assumed that neither angels nor demons  _ can _ dream, since they lack the imperative to sleep. However, given that any occult being has a surplus of time and imagination, they can dream quite vividly. 

Given that Crowley possesses a magnitude of imagination, and a dearth of time challenged only by the deepest depths of the universe, he can lucid dream without effort—he can even dream walk if he feels so inclined. Though, since he’s  _ technically  _ retired, he tends to use that skill less for spreading demonic forment and more for driving his husband up the metaphorical wall. 

Anyway.)

When he finds himself on the tarmac at the Tadfield airbase, ground shaking and Aziraphale waving that bloody flaming sword about, Crowley accepts that he’s dreaming with the blasé air of someone who has  _ been there, done that.  _

Because he has, and he knows how this one ends. 

“Do something!” Aziraphale shouts, “Or, Or I’ll never! I’ll never talk to you again!”

The threat still sparks panic in his gut, a tingle of fright that crawls over his skin and settles at the base of his spine. Even now, the threat sinks heavy into his skin, because what is the world without Aziraphale?

Boring, it is. Dull. Empty.  _ Lonely.  _ Because who else would laugh at him when he goes to pick up the coin he’d glued to the sidewalk a fortnight previously? Who else could he give his serving of pie to, when he ordered it simply for one bite? Or groan at him when he explains his newest devious scheme for forment, a real one, one that signifies understanding, one that says  _ Crowley you arse, that’s so frustratingly petty?  _

(Who would call The Velvet Underground bebop if there was no Aziraphale in his life?)

(He’d asked, once, what would have happened if he’d not managed to stop time like he had. 

Aziraphale tipped his head and shrugged.  _ Well,  _ he said,  _ I suppose I wouldn’t have talked to you again, as we’d have died. _ ) 

He thrusts his hands up, confident in ways he wasn’t during the actual moment—it’s a dream, he knows it’s going to work now—and pulls down his power. 

Nothing. 

He curls his fingers, locked taut and shaking, feet braced to ground himself and tugs. 

He yanks. Concentrates. Pulls and pulls, but he collapses to his knees, exhausted from the pressure of trying. 

“I can’t,” he says, eyes wide as he stares up at Aziraphale and that flaming sword. “Angel, I, it’s… the energy is gone.” 

**_Of course it is, you stupid fool_ ** **.**

Satan’s voice echoes across the tarmac, rattling bones and filling ears with a screeching static power. He can stop dreaming now, he can  _ wake up _ , if that’s okay—wake up, to your fussy husband and a hot cup of cocoa-slash-coffee and the garden that you’ve yanked up from the ground with your words and fingers—wake  _ up.  _

Crowley scrapes his fingers across the concrete, still pulling time towards himself, because he has to, he must, he must give Adam that one moment to step aside from his fear, give him that second to gather his wits. To let him know that he alone has the power and the choice, and they will stand behind him as agents of Hell and Heaven both. If he stops time, the dream goes right, and he can manage to stop the rattling beat of his heart and wake. 

Time slows, catching particles in the air as it stutters around them. For a moment, he can see the white sand swirling around their feet. 

**_You dare defy me? Petulant wretch._ **

Satan flicks a massive clawed finger towards Crowley, and out from the ground a dark slinking figure of an animal lurches, trailing oil and gore behind it. 

It growls, flaming spittle flying as it launches itself towards Crowley. 

Aziraphale shouts, sword leaving a gleaming wave of fire as he steps in front of Crowley’s prone body, blocking the creature’s pitch fangs with his sword. 

The scent of rotting, scorched flesh fills the sulfur-stenched air, and Aziraphale’s heels skid back as the hellhound rushes him again. He parrys, then plunges his sword into the beast’s mouth, then yelps as it chomps down. 

_ I can wake the fuck up now! _ ****

It jumps back and makes an awful wet sound, hunching forward onto its haunches as the sword clatters to the ground beside Crowley. Golden ichor wets the ground around them, and Crowley rises onto his hands, not understanding what’s happened until the hellhound retches up one perfectly manicured hand between them. 

Crowley scrabbles back, a sound like the wail of an oncoming storm bursting from his mouth. 

The power is enough to send the beast scrabbling back, the ground cracking between it and them—behind them, one of the children whimpers, and Adam shouts a defiant  _ no! _ , but it’s too late, the hellbeast launches forward and tears skin from throat, showering Crowley with burning specks of ichor. 

There’s an awful crack and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s bone or the sound of his sanity shattering. 

_ Do something _ ! Rings the last command, his only commandment from his only god, the only one that ever matters. 

_ DO SOMETHING _

He picks up the flaming sword. The sword Aziraphale gave away, the one he gave to the humans in the wake of Crowley’s temptation, and it feels like home in his hand, his flesh burning as the holiness of it sears into his skin. It feels like home he knows is there, if only he will wake, with Aziraphale’s fingers wrapped around his, warm and soft and holy—

Oh, but he is not a holy creature here, not so consumed with confusion and revulsion and grief. 

_ You were an angel once _ , Aziraphale’s voice whispers in his very bones, and he wills it so, just for now. 

He sets upon the beast, kicks it from Aziraphale’s body and slices it’s head from its shoulders. 

More of the Hellhounds spill out from the earth, and demons too, but Crowley doesn’t notice, he doesn’t care in his wild, wild grief. 

He burns, until his palm is fused to the hilt, and he fights with wild abandon to protect the kids, at least,  _ you can’t kill kids!,  _ knowing he will die here, the world will die here, and it might as well because he’s standing in a spreading pool of molten gold, his body burning burning burning—

He burns, burns from the inside, from where the holy fire has pierced his demon-sludge veins and charcoal burning heart, and he will die from this, gladly, purged and purified by his beloved’s sword, and then he will  _ wake the fuck up. _

_ wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup _ **_wakeupWAKEUP_ **


	3. fragment

Crowley looks up at the reddening sky, unable to move, a holy spear of light keeping him pinned down like a butterfly. Around him, the ground quakes, cracks, swallows the world around them as trumpets begin to sound. He doesn’t remember how he got to this, how he got here, how it got this bad. One minute, he was blinking, dying, a maelstrom of holy fire and burning, bleeding limbs, screaming at the world and at himself, and now he’s here, gasping, as the world ends around them. 

He can’t hear it. He can’t see it. He can only see Aziraphale, struggling to pull the lance free from where it burns him, his flesh scorching and webbing around it, over and over. It’s too slick with his blood, with Aziraphale’s blood, with the acid spittle of Satan falling down like rain around them on the tarmac. 

It’s not the first time he’s died, but it’s the first time that it has ever hurt so damn _much_. He grasps at memories, quicksilver flashes that dance like the confetti-bright spots in his vision: Adam failed to choose, that the love he had was not enough to overcome the thrall of petulant power he’d come into. Crowley isn’t sure what went wrong or _how_ , only that it went so very wrong. 

Golden ichor burns where it flows into his chest, and blood wells up in Crowley’s throat. He gasps, gurgles, and Aziraphale is on his knees in a second, turning his head to the side and holding his mouth open so Crowley can cough it up. 

“Please, please _do_ something,” Aziraphale begs, tears welling up, making his voice thick. His wings spread, shielding Crowley from the mess and the sight of the battle overhead. “Crowley, please. You’re so _stupid_ , why did you throw yourself in front of Gabriel’s spear, it wouldn’t have killed me! Crowley, you _must_ do something! Get up!” 

Crowley reaches out and touches Aziraphale’s mouth with dirt and ash-coated fingers, shaking his head. He shakily presses his thumb to the seam of Aziraphale’s lips, and with the last of his strength, he traces the shape of the angels’ mouth, praying with every last piece of him that still could belong to God that Aziraphale understands, that Aziraphale knows it was instinct that drove him, centuries of protection woven into him because he couldn’t bear to see Aziraphale hurt, to see him bleed, to be without him. 

That he’s sorry: he’s sorry that this world is ending, that he could have helped stop it, but he failed; he’s sorry he’s leaving, he’s sorry he’s hurting Aziraphale. He’s sorry that he loves him, loved him for forever, and that... That he hasn’t said it, that he hasn’t said he loves him. 

_But he knows, he knows, it hurts, wake up, wake the fuck up, he's fine, you're fine, **wake up**!_

Blood fills his mouth and slips from his parted lips; everything focuses to the point where Gabriel’s weapon pierced his chest, to where his fingers slip from Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale catches them, holds them back to his lips. 

“Crowley, please, one more miracle for me? You can save us both, I know it,” Aziraphale whispers, leaning down, his face pressed close to Crowley’s, scooping him up slowly. 

He gags with pain as Aziraphale lifts him slowly up the lance to slip his body underneath his knees. He wants to scream with pain, wants to chide Aziraphale, wants to be able to slip from this relatively unscathed and snap his fingers to clear away the blood seeping into pressed cotton trousers and camel hair coat, but it’s too much. 

He’s too hurt, too confused, in too much pain…

A miracle… a miracle… He focuses, not on the pain, but on the power swirling around the wound trying to heal it—it never will, and festering away like this isn’t his style at all. He gathers it, balls it up, and presses it to the tip of his tongue, clearing his mouth and his airway just enough to gasp out, “sssorry, m...love—” 

And that’s all he can manage before his power drains away in the holy fire of the heavenly spear, and he speaks no more. 

_If I were an angel,_ he wonders, sight fading as Aziraphale shelters his body from the storm around them, _could I stop it at all?_

_Could I wake up?_


	4. intruder

So imagine this: instead of a tree, a garden. 

A garden made of carefully cultivated memories, each plucked from eons of wealth, sorrow, grief, and happiness. Seeds sown with love and devotion and awe, and watered with the water of the heart. 

Imagine the lushness, the verdant leaves and exotic flowers. Every choice made, loved, and cherished to grow into a garden rival to Eden itself. 

And like Eden, this garden is guarded. Guarded by cherub, by witch, by demon, charms and blood and bone and a little bit of wishful thinking. 

Like Eden, this is not quite enough to keep it safe. 

* * *

Aziraphale feels the wards break deep in his chest, like a band snapping between the spaces of his rib. He clutches his hand to his chest, gasping as the sound of shattering china fills the library of the cottage, body growing cold with absolute dread. 

He swallows past the dryness in his mouth, his senses stretching past the bounds of his body, out and through the house, his spirit testing the bounds like a tongue searching for a sore tooth to worry. 

The garden, the wards broke in the garden—

“Crowley,” he gasps, and in that second, he realizes the peaceful warmth he’s come to associate with his husband (sometimes spouse, sometimes wife) has disappeared entirely. 

In its place is something far, far more dangerous. 

Aziraphale is not a running sort of person. He’ll walk as briskly as possible, perhaps he’ll even jog along for a little bit, but he does not run. Occasionally, Crowley will, and Aziraphale is content to wave him along and huff.

He didn’t even run during the Apocalapse. But he runs now—never-mind that he can just _will_ himself into the garden. As he rushes through the cottage, he grabs the first thing he can put his hands on, desperate for some sort of weapon to use. 

He clutches the wooden handle of the old straw broom in his hand, tossing the back door of the cottage open with just a thought. 

He skids to a halt, shock immobilizing him as three demons whirl about, their already smug expressions twisting with glee as they take stock of the angel panting in the doorway. 

Aziraphale’s breath catches, eyes dropping from their faces—unoriginal, ripped, marred, festering—to their feet. Slumped among the roots of their apple tree is Crowley, his body alarmingly slack and pale.

Aziraphale shouts, and in an instant, he sets upon the demons. With a flick of his wrist, his broom catches fire as he swings it at the first demon. It’s not his sword, but it’ll do. 

“Get! Get away from him!” he shouts, beaning one squarely about the shoulders with the broom. 

“Oi!” one of them shouts as the first demon turns into a very fat, very bald rat that gets knocked up against the fence with a quick swipe of the broom’s end. 

“What! On! Earth! Were! You! Doing!” he cries, hitting another demon about the knees and ankles with each exclamation. 

“Ow! Hey!”

“Get in the circle!” Aziraphale shouts, prodding him in the rear with the end of the flaming broom, setting their trousers aflame. “Get! _Now_! Away! Now!” 

“Man, you don’t have to get all bloody holy!”

Aziraphale lets his wings unfurl and his head brushes against the branches as his form swells. 

“I don’t? Well, I beg to differ. Now **_shoo_**!”

“Oi! Lay off, you retired grandpa!” the rat shrieks. It tries to bite his ankles—Aziraphale may have stomped on its tail without guilt. “We’re on a _mission_!” 

“I may be retired but I certainly will _not_ lay off! How dare you!” Aziraphale shouts, crowding the two demons and the demonic rat together with his wings. 

He hasn’t had to use his powers like this in such a long time. Or, well, _ever_ if he’s being perfectly honest. Smiting never was his preference—stern talking-to’s that left whatever ne'er-do-well feeling very embarrassed with themselves were more his style. He doesn’t quite remember what to do with his voice, with his wings, with his entire self. 

This rage is not him, and it’s exhausting, but there is no other way at the moment. He slams the butt of the broomstick into the soft earth of the garden, and a blazing circle of holy fire flares up around the demons. 

“You will stay there, and you _will_ tell me what you did to my husband!” Aziraphale booms, his voice shaking the leaves of every plant in the garden. 

The three demons turn to each other, snickering even within the confines of the holy circle of power Aziraphale has mustered, like they’re mocking him. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, pigeon?” one of them laughs. 

“I would,” Aziraphale agrees easily, feeling himself burn hot with anger. The circle of holy fire flares and tightens around the demons. 

“We didn’t do anything! He chose to go off didn’t he, lads? And now he’s stuck there, too bad. Must be sick of you,” the rat laughs. 

“I said,” Aziraphale says, voice going oddly quiet and gentle even as he steps into the ring of fire. “Tell me where Crowley is.” 

“Right there.” 

“Oh, dear, I don’t think that’s quite right,” Aziraphale tuts. He steps up to the nearest demon, an unfortunate fellow with scaly pink hands and feet, hair the color of soot and beady black eyes. He tips their chin up with the flaming head of the broom, tipping his head as the demon flinches and shrieks. 

“I don’t like this,” he says softly, and it sounds like he means it too, even as the scent of acrid burning flesh overpowers the gentle country air. “We had so hoped this was beyond us. Now. Where is Crowley?” 

“Gone! Gone!” the demon shrieks. 

Aziraphale reaches out through the barrier, gripping their chin between his thumb and forefinger, pushing hard into the joint of their jaw. “Gone where?” 

“I don’t know, man! Not here!” 

“Useless,” Azirahale huffs. He pushes the demon back and studies the three with cold eyes. “Who sent you?” 

His wings flutter, each eye opening to train on the circle. Talons shimmer beneath the veneer of human flesh, a beak dripping with holy fire snapping with impatience. 

“Well?” asks Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of Eden and Earth and one particular Demon, tone implying the answer better be good, _or else_. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. He’ll have to apologize to Crowley for scorching the rhododendrons later. 


	5. starfall

Crowley opens his eyes, squinting up at the sun. 

_I should have made it a bit softer,_ he finds himself thinking. 

He pauses, his mind shouting: _Wait, I didn’t—_ and yet he has the clearest memories of spinning her up, weaving gas and stardust and energy into the dense molten core of it, spinning it out into orbit. 

He takes stock of where he is and nearly chokes: he stands on the Western Gate of Eden, wings unfurled in the warm light, a stave of golden light strapped between them. 

He raises his hands. Starlight sparkles under his nails, and he chokes. He never made it this far, to his future post before he Fell, because he’d had a taste of the Plan and found it bitter, but here… here…

He isn’t Crowley, the Serpent. He’s Raphael, Angel of the Western Gate. 

He’s still not keen on some of the Plan, but what he is keen on is a certain Eastern angel—some things never do change, even in… wherever this is. 

He remembers how he delights Aziraphale by spinning starlight between his fingers, flicking them up into the sky. Recall the way Aziraphale beams and shares the fruit of the Garden with him. 

Today, Gabriel has indulged him and let Raphael take his stretch of the Garden’s northern border to meet Aziraphale, so they may descend together to the Garden. 

The others indulge him quite a bit. They think Aziraphale is a bit like a puppy, excited to be stationed with archangels, smitten with everything Raphael does. 

Crowley shrinks from the open, radiantly pure adoration that shines through every memory, his angel, eyes bright and teeth shining as they laugh together every day. He’s never seen Aziraphale look so _young._

They hold a secret, those memories. The others don’t know that Raphael is more than a mentor, that Aziraphale isn’t some helpless follower. 

Crowley trembles at the intensity of the love of two angels without form or ideas of physical sex can make. He remembers a black hole they made together from their first coupling, and how God had merely chuckled at the two souls she’d spun together. She kept their secret, Her warm fingers stroking through Raphael’s copper hair as She smiled. 

His memories thought it fond, but Crowley knows that sad, sad smile. Disaster is coming, because God pities them. 

He breaks into a run, wings flapping hard as he launches himself off the edge of the wall. 

He knows, in some inexplicable way, that he will not be the angel that stumbles and trips into a Fall. 

_I just wanted to wake up_ ! _Not this, not like this, I didn’t mean to dream_ **_this_**!

“Aziraphale! _Aziraphale!_ Where are you?” He cries, and it echoes through the Garden. 

“Where are you?” a voice echoes back. “Where have you gone, Adam? Eve?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Crowley whispers, and he dives, landing in the center of the Garden where the Tree is. 

“ ** _Aziraphale!_** ”

Aziraphale turns, his hands shaking as he grabs at Raphael. 

Raphael draws him tight, chin tucked against the top of Aziraphale’s head, holding his face tight to his neck. 

“What’s happened,” he whispers, “Zira, my starlight, please.” 

“You have disobeyed me,” a voice rings out. Her voice, and She is displeased. “Adam, why?”

“No, I, I didn’t realize,” Aziraphale cries against Raphael’s neck. “Lord, Lord please, forgive—”

Crowley knows She won’t, and so does Raphael, who watched his brothers Fall and swallowed back his quiet _why, Lord, why_ in shame. He feels the ripples of the Almighty’s anger, feels it tear at his skin, and the snake beneath Raphael’s skin squirms in guilt. Together, they know what is coming, and that it is coming for Aziraphale. 

He draws his wings around his love, holding him tight, hoping that he can protect his angel from what is coming. 

Footsteps rustle behind him, and Aziraphale howls in grief. 

God stands at the edge of the copse, hands folded into the sleeves of Her robes, face lined with deep displeasure. Crowley stares at her in horror, his entire corporation itching with fear, with disgust—Aziraphale _loves_ this thing before them, and… he loves Her too. 

“Forgive me! _Mother_!”

“You allowed them, Aziraphale. You knew, yet you allowed them to ask, you gave Eve answers when you should not have. You allowed her to eat from the Tree, and for that, I rebuke you.”

Aziraphale’s fingers hook into the meat of Raphael’s chest, voice cracking on a scream. 

Crowley remembers Falling. He remembers the pain of it, of the horrific shattering of the world. All he can do is hold on to Aziraphale as he screams until his voice is gone, rock him and stroke his hair as he sobs, as his wings bleed black and his skin peels away. 

As golden ichor coats Raphael’s hands, the question that damned Crowley trips from his lips. 

“Why cast them all aside? Why do they have to suffer?” Raphael moans. “Why must there be pain without easement?”

God does not look. She stares, unblinking, a holy monument as Aziraphale’s screams break into the howling echo of the vacuum. She points, mouth barely parting. 

“I damn you to flight, to fly in the dark, never to be able to reach Heaven’s light again, so the sun may sear your eyes, so you can taste what you have damned my children to,” God says, and Aziraphale screams, clawing at the ground until his bones show through the skin, his robes falling away, revealing a dark brand—a mockery of wings twisted on the nape of his neck. 

He turns away from Her, clutching Aziraphale to his chest, tears pouring down his face as God looks on. 

“Why, _why_ , if you cannot spare him, then spare the humans, give them some respite from the pain of the world, please, my mother, let me tend to the wounds of his heart, allow me this.”

God tips her head, then vanishes. 

Raphael is left there in the Garden, hand bracing Aziraphale’s back as he falls to all fours, retching blood as his fingers tear lines in the soft earth. 

“I’m here, starlight, my angel, even when all is dark, I will be your mercy,” Raphael whispers, over and over as what makes up Crowley retreats, pulling his soul away, back to the furthest parts of Raphael’s essence, closing his eyes to the horror before him. 

Raphael is the angel of mercy, of healing, but only because God will not give these things Herself. He makes himself out of spite, a turned cheek against the cruelty of Heaven. 

As for the angel Aziraphale… 

He calls himself Azrafel. 

Raphael, however, insists on calling him Zira, darling, lovely, clever, Az, delight, my angel, angel, angel—and Azirafel shakes his head, his strange black marble eyes glinting in amusement where the adoration has twisted back into something darker, possessive. 

Deep within Raphael, the serpentine shadow of Crowley sleeps, and he notes the sort of cunning demon Aziraphale has become. There’s a resentful respect in it, because Azrafel is the sort of demon who can talk his way into anyone’s house, steal the valuables, and be long gone before anyone notices. 

(A much, much better demon than Crowley is—was—will be?)

( _Darling,_ Azrafel murmurs after a particularly abraisive telling off by Raphael, after he’d targeted a particularly popular priest. _He was stealing from the offerings. Also, the children… Raphael, do be a dear and go to his home for me, and tell me if he’s truly someone you want Heaven to favor._

Raphael had been sick at heart for years and years after. But then, Raphael is always sick at heart, because he is Crowley, and this is not the life he belongs to. This life is a bad dream that he’s wished himself into, and he can’t wake up.)

Azrafel tempts men away from their wives to waste away on research expeditions. Lures missionaries to new lands, decimating swaths of people. Guides rats to ships and cows to lakes where people drink. Where he goes, there is either knowledge or pestilence in his wake. If Azrafel can do both, he will. 

Raphael follows him, always. Perhaps that’s _why_ Azrafel does what he does, because he’s afraid Raphael will leave him if he doesn’t. Raphael tries not to think about why, just that it _is._

He cures and cures and cures, easing fevers and illnesses and sleepless nights. He scolds the graverobbers, chides those who go to dissections like plays, but he also smooths out the vitriol of the church, nudging them towards the things that can save them, and once, he guided a single spore to a plate of forgotten agar.

(Azrafel, fiercely proud of Raphael’s hand in penicillin, had fed him apples by hand and kept them locked in his bookshop for days, their bodies intertwined in every shape and configuration they can manage. 

_You put Pestillence out of a job, you clever wonderful thing, merciful bastard, you retired a horseman and who but me will love you for it?)_

And so it goes. Centuries pass by like this like water over a cliff until it happens. 

Azrafel is called away from his shop and comes back looking thoroughly disgusted and sits across from Raphael in the greenhouse room, sliding a bottle of whiskey across the wood. 

“Drink,” he says. 

“Why?” Raphael asks—he’s been hand pollinating orchids for the past hour and has been cursing steadily for the past fifty minutes. “What did you break?”

Azrafel makes a noise like a click of a beak, a lowly resonating hiss. His eyes are round, shiny in the low light. He’s got his sunglasses tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat, belying the seriousness of the conversation. Raphael knows the pain it causes him to be in the light, so he snaps his fingers, pulling the lights in the shop down low, until the flickering candles cast a red-orange glow to Azrafel’s eyes. 

“Drink,” Azrafel says again. “We must talk, demon to angel. And then as ourselves.”

Crowley stirs within the dream that is Raphael, recognizing the meaning before Raphael does. 

“What’s happened?” Crowley asks. He picks up the whiskey and with a twirl of a finger, two tumblers skid across the desk. He pours them a generous three fingers each to start, then sloshes in extra when Azrafel hisses again. 

Arafel folds his hands together and rests his mouth upon them. “The child has been born,” he says. “I had to deliver him today. Not... _bodily_ , but, you know.” 

“Spit it out, Azra,” Crowley says, a bit sharper than how he would normally speak to Azrafel. 

Azrafel raises one pristinely groomed eyebrow, dark eyes glittering. “It quite sounds like you already know, my dear angel.” 

“I need to hear you say it,” Crowley insists. “Tell me, Azra.” 

“The antichrist has arrived,” Azrafel sighs. He regards his glass for a moment, then fills it to the brim with whiskey. “Cheers.” 

Crowley sighs and picks up his own glass. “Cheers.” 

They drink. And drink. And then, for good measure, they drink again.

Crowley watches as Azrafel gets steadily drunker, ignoring his own swimming vision and loosening limbs. There are feathers beginning to spread down from Azrafel’s white-blond curls, covering his neck with down. 

“I know I’m s’posed to be all for thissss, but it all seems silly,” Azrafel says, tapping one talon-long nail to his _nth_ glass of whiskey. “It was just an apple. Wasn’t like I _told_ her to eat it, just that it was _there_ , you see? And then the Lady upstairs has hated it all ever since! Tosh!”

“I’d rather swan dive straight into hellfire than spend eternity listening to _The Sound of Music,”_ Crowley mutters. 

“Who says your lot will win!” 

Crowley snorts at the indignant tone Azrafel slurs out. His demon is quite prideful, something that hasn’t changed much from the Aziraphale he tries to keep living in his mind. 

“You well know it’s a fifty-fifty chance,” Azrafel sniffs. “Goodness, the humans have done most of the dirty work already, what with the climate change and rampant hatred and whatnot… Sometimes I wonder if it’s best if we just let it all go. Hell already has the best of them, it feels like.” 

“Bollocks,” Crowley exclaims, slamming his cup down. Whiskey wets his fingers and Azrafel’s expensive table, and he can’t bring himself to care. He’s the part of Raphael that has always been heartsick, that has always longed for something that can’t be found, that has pushed the angel to trudge forward instead of letting himself fall. 

He should have been pushing Azrafel as well. 

“If either side wins,” he seethes, “Then where will your expensive alcohol come from? We both know the wine in Heaven is watered down communion wine, and it’s all fireballs in Hell. And your nice tailored suits? Community plays? Your expensive dolphin-safe tuna?” 

“Now see here, Raphael,” Azrafel starts. “You don’t think I know that? I just don’t see what we can do about the whole thing.”

Crowley grins. This, finally, is his territory. “Well. Why don’t we sober up, because I have a suggestion.”

* * *

It goes to Hell, because of course it does, why wouldn’t it? This is Crowley’s worst nightmare, after all.

Azrafel is too meticulous to fuck up the baby swap like he had oh so long ago, and it isn’t like Heaven even pretends to trust Raphael—oh no, Gabriel and the lot of them snag him the very second they realize that little Warlock Dowling might be a little too attached to his strange nanny, and their punishment is swift, cruel, and public.

It turns out, if you cut off an angel’s wings, pull them out by the root, paring away skin like removing fat from a steak, leaving the tendons dangling like ribbons from ruined bone and muscle, the ichor stops flowing. It pools out from creamy skin, turning it dull and yellow, and the golden shine tarnishes. 

When an angel’s grace is gone, they bleed red. This was not something Crowley ever wanted Azrafel to learn. 

Azrafel has no reason to stop Warlock from tearing Heaven apart. 


	6. before

Perhaps it is necessary to look back a little to truly understand the state the demon Crowley finds himself in. It is, after all, our past actions that bring us to the present.

Think of a tree in the middle of summer. Lush, sprawling, fruit budding and swelling in the hot sunlight. Fall and winter are months away—it has days and days and days to fruit and photosynthesize and prepare itself to shrink away to withstand the winter. 

Think of a freak storm, that one odd cool-winded, wet week that happens occasionally when you live in certain areas of the world. The ones that are becoming more and more frequent. 

Imagine the tree, sensing the lack of sun, the wetness of the ground, the temperature of the air around its energy-consuming leaves. 

The tree does not know it is still summer, so it prepares for winter. 

* * *

There is nothing to fear, here, in this life they’ve made. And yet, Crowley is trapped in his fears; he can feel them, like they’re some creature that skitters up the rungs of his spine, like they’re a swarm of hornets inside of his skull.

He can smell smoke in the air at night, taste sulfur in the mornings. There are days he wakes up and is so blinded by it that he can’t see the ring on his finger, and freezes, convinced he’s alone in the cottage; convinced that Aziraphale was never even there, that this is a dying hallucination of his alcohol-laden brain at the end of the world. There are nights where he wakes up, drenched in sweat from a fire that is no longer burning, from hellfire in heaven, from dreams where he is hopeless, helpless, and alone in the face of it all.

He’s a demon, he should be stronger than this, than the trembling wreck he is, falling to pieces now that there is someone willing to pick them up. He is a dam broken, water flooding past splintered levees and he’s afraid he’ll drown Aziraphale in everything he’s held back since Noah’s flood. 

Those nights, guilt fills his gut when he comes to his senses, unable to face the worry that lines his love’s face so deeply. 

“This isn’t fair to you, angel,” he whispers. 

_This was supposed to be a refuge_ , Crowley thinks, a place to leave it all behind, _and I brought an entire continent’s worth of baggage._

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale chides gently, scooping Crowley’s gangly body closer to his own, spooning up behind him to hold him tight. “Besides, if we’re keeping track of what is and isn’t fair, it’s not fair that you’re so wonderful.” 

“On the eyes, yes?” Crowley jokes as Aziraphale’s warmth seeps into him, his grace swirling out and soothing his frayed edges. 

“Yes, my dearest,” Aziraphale says, without the usual trace of sarcasm. “Now sleep.”

Crowley wiggles until he can turn his face to Aziraphale’s, watching him in the light that pours through the ivy-covered window. Outside, the moon is full and bright, stirring all of god’s creatures, great and small and damned, from slumber. An owl screeches somewhere out there, hunting, and deep in the foundations of the cottage the family of shrews curl tighter in their safe little nest. 

This is _home_ , the Downs are home: Safe, secure with its wards and protections, both human and supernatural in craft. Aziraphale is with him, his book abandoned as soft fingers pet through his hair. There’s biscuits in the kitchen, waiting to be eaten with coffee and tea in the morning. There’s a mess in the sink from their attempts at dinner. It’s so blissfully domestic that Crowley can’t even believe it, believe that years have passed like this: the two of them loving and living together in this small haven. 

All should be well! He has nothing to be anxious over, nothing to fear in this cozy little nook it took them six thousand years and an apocalypse to carve! This is their prize, their well-earned reward, the happily-ever-after they’ve so longed for! 

Yet… there’s something…out there that makes him feel uneasy, makes him feel watched and nervous. 

“Angels can walk in dreams,” Aziraphale yawns, sliding a finger down Crowley’s arm. He spreads his palm out over Crowley’s, lacing their fingers. He brings it to his chest, over his slowly-beating heart. “Do I need to kip over into yours? Beat up a few demons?” 

It’s not the dreams, he wants to say. 

There’s something out there, he wants to whisper. Two years and some change, and now there’s something… something not right. Something that makes him shake, that makes him afraid that perhaps the safety and the rightness of this place was a trap after all. 

“Nah,” he whispers. 

In the morning, he’ll go out and check the wards.


	7. calvary

Once the wayward demons are sufficiently banished and he’s surrounded Crowley with every protection ward he can think of without actually hurting his poor partner’s corporation, he finds himself standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the phone as it rings. And rings. And rings. 

It started ringing the second he’d opened the back door, a shrill, old fashioned sound that rattles his skull beneath his skin, sending his unnecessary, but oh-so-skittish, heart pounding. He hasn’t been so sick with fear and worry since the Apocanope.

The mundanity of the phone’s continuous ringing is almost maddening, if it hadn’t thrown him so off-kilter. 

He sets the broomstick aside, where the flames simmer down to a slow broiling light and reaches for the wall-mounted phone. (Crowley had scoffed at it; “No one uses _landlines_ anymore, angel.” But Aziraphale had insisted.) 

He picks it up, opening his mouth to speak and finding that his voice has well and truly left him in his fright—his mind is too focused on other planes of existence, consciousness stretching out to find Crowley’s and finding _nothing_ , nothing at all, and dear God, is this what Crowley had gone through during Armageddidn’t? 

“ _Aziraphale! What the hell happened?”_

Aziraphale flinches back from the strident, American-accented shout in his ear, and he finds himself sagging against the wall in relief as Anathema barrels on without an answer to her question. 

“ _E_ _verything rippled, all the way over here in Tadfield, it upset the leylines, Dog is going off something maddening, and Adam just manifested a bonsai tree with a perfectly ripe apple on it while we were trying to focus on next week’s weather! And now he’s demanding we go see you immediately!”_

Aziraphale exhales slowly, breath shuddering out. “I think, yes, dear girl, please do,” he manages. “Hell has… well, we’ve finally gotten a taste of retaliation here.” 

Anathema pauses for a moment. “ _Is it a whiskey situation?”_

“I think we may need to be sober.” 

She whistles slowly. “ _We’ll be there ASAP.”_

And without fanfare or goodbyes, Anathema hangs up. 

Aziraphale is dreadfully fond of her, and so is Crowley. Not only is she good company, he knows that if he wants to figure out what’s going on, he’ll need her help. 

He may even need Adam’s, as tenuous as his powers are. 

(One just doesn’t stop being supernaturally gifted after something like that happened. Adam could disavow being the Antichrist all he liked, and _get_ that wish, but he’s still of supernatural stock. What he is now is closer to what Anathema is, and Adam takes great delight in learning her trade, even if he does use it to divine the answers to his math homework.) 

Aziraphale sits on the kitchen floor, holding the phone even as the tone drones on and on to the point of annoyance. 

He’s in shock, he supposes. A dreadfully human condition, but then again, he’s always been dreadfully human himself. 

He hauls himself up, hangs up the phone, and sets about making himself a very strong cup of tea, trying to piece together the situation as best he can. 

Something sinisterly supernatural has happened—of this he’s certain, though he’s not certain of much else. 

(Crowley has always been his certainty, even before he realized that the quiet voice in the back of his mind that questioned was Crowley’s.) 

“Here are the facts,” he says, some hours later as he ushers one stern-faced Anathema, a pensively worried former antichrist, and the forever-sheepish Newton in. 

He wrings his hands tightly together, until his joints ache with the movement. “Crowley is… he is not…” 

His voice falters, cracks, and he shakes his head, one hand pressed to his trembling mouth. “He’s no longer with us,” he says faintly, eyes burning. 

“I’ll make tea,” Newt says loudly. 

Anathema elbows him as Adam steps up to Aziraphale and takes the angel’s elbow in one awkward hand, and guides him out of the hallway. 

“ _What_ ?” Newt whispers. “ _We’re English! Tea fixes—”_

Adam clears his throat, hiding whatever else poor Newt says. “When you say that, that don’t mean he’s…?” 

Aziraphale looks down at Adam, blinking as he realizes he doesn’t have to look quite far as down as before. “I,” Aziraphale says, inhaling sharply as his voice does something odd and wobbly, “I don’t… I’m not sure.” 

“Well, that means he’s not,” Adam says, patting Aziraphale’s arm. “We’ll figure it out and put it back right.” 

“If you two had moved to Tadfield, you could have been safer,” Anathema says, striding into the sitting room, mouth pinched tightly. 

If she’d been anyone else, Aziraphale may have bristled at the accusation. But like Crowley, Anathema grows spikes when she’s worried, and Aziraphale is a deft hand at avoiding the prickliest parts of their anxious nature. Also, he knows that, while she’s wrong, it comes from the deepest part of her heart, and that eases the sting where the burr does stick. 

“We like it here,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “In any case, the wards were undone over a length of time, not all at once. Those blasted demons had been scraping away at our protection for, oh… months now.” 

“You didn’t notice?” Adam asks. 

Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, teeth worrying the inside of his mouth until he tastes the copper-oil-bright taste of ichor. 

“No, I, I didn’t, and Crowley must not have… unless… Oh, the poor dear,” he whispers, eyes going wide as he falls still, head turned towards the back of the house, unseeing as Newt slips into the tense silence with a tray of tea. 

“It sounds like you realized something,” Newt says shrewdly. 

“I,” Aziraphale begins, fidgeting with his fingers. “The dreams, he’d been having bad dreams… I—we… didn’t think anything of it.”

Newt sets the tray down onto the coffee table with a rattle and a scrape that has Aziraphale striding over and shooing his hands away from the service. 

“You dream?” Adam asks.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Of course, well. I can’t speak for _all_ of our sorts, but we certainly do. Perhaps it’s a side effect of imagination. I, I really didn’t think anything of it,” he says faintly. He sets the saucers down, one by one, with gentle precision. “Almighty knows that Crowley has plenty to have nightmares over, we… we simply thought, _I_ thought it meant he was healing, finally able to process what’s happened, it isn’t as if I haven’t had nightmares as well!” 

“You don’t have to justify not realizing something was wrong,” Anathema says gently. 

“Of course I do!” Aziraphale snaps. He clenches his teeth and swallows hard as he sets each cup in its saucer, turning them just so as he tries to regain his temper. “I’m, I was made to _protect_ , and I’ve… I’ve failed, _again_.” 

“We’ll save him,” Adam says firmly. 

“Yes, that’s, yes,” Aziraphale mumbles absently. “Of course.”

Anathema clears her throat, leaning forward in that no-nonsense way of hers. “Where did you find him? Talk us through it.”

“I found him underneath the apple tree,” Aziraphale sighs, pouring tea with shaking hands. It splashes on the service tray, brown droplets seeping onto sugar cubes and melting them slowly. 

Anathema rises and puts her hands over Aziraphale’s, gently taking the pot from him. He sinks into his wingback chair gratefully, his hands going over his face. 

“The apple tree,” Newt prompts after a moment of expectantly awkward silence. Adam shuffles his feet a bit, pointedly looking away when Anathema shoots a look that could cut diamonds. 

“Oh, yes, the apple tree,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking towards the window, and blinking when he finds it shuttered. “Funnily enough… or… well. Inasmuch as such things can be funny… That was the housewarming gift Adam and his friends… Oh. Oh dear.”

Adam feels his face grow warm and he raises his hands. “I didn’t do it, I promise,” he says, and would sound indignant if not for the crack in his voice. “Or, not on _purpose_.” 

“No, no that’s not what I’m implying at all,” Aziraphale says, accepting a cup of tea from Anathema’s steady hands. “It’s more of a… how did you pick out the sapling?” 

“We, well, we couldn’t decide on the kind, and there were some that didn’t have tags in the back,” Adam says. He pauses, mouth scrunched as he thinks. “We thought it was brilliant, just, to buy something to see what would happen, what it would grow up into, and I carried it to the till and said… Oh. I said, _wouldn’t it be wicked if it was an apple tree_?” 

Anathema groans. “Oh, Adam, we talked about projecting!” 

“No, no! That explains it! Goodness!” Aziraphale exclaims, standing upright, setting his teacup on the mantle as he begins to pace. “This is can’t be good. If it was magical in the first place, power draws power, then that means… yes, good Lord, that must be…”

He sinks back into his chair, oblivious to the bewildered look Newt shoots Anathema, who surreptitiously chunks a sugar cube at him when he mouths _did that make sense to you_ at her. 

“Uh,” Newt says, unperturbed by the sugar-pelting. “Normal human here. Can you explain?”

“The tree is magic,” Anathema groans. “Just by virtue of Adam choosing its shape.”

“Crowley has a... _predilection_ for apple trees,” Aziraphale says, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “I think those demons tried to drag him back to hell and Crowley latched onto the nearest vessel available to him.” 

“Okay,” Newt says. “So you just have to fish him from the tree, then. Not that hard, right?” 

“Magic tree,” Anathema sighs. “Magic _apple_ tree.” 

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“And why is the distinction important?” 

“Ah, well. Think of it this way, Newton: At its most basic level, we can look at the apple tree as the root of all choices. And then those demons _did_ say he chose to go where he went…” 

“So where’d he go?” Adam asks. 

Aziraphale looks out the window and purses his lips thoughtfully. “Well, wherever choices go when we’re done making them, I’d think,” he says. 

“That’s very helpful,” Newt mumbles into his tea.

“Where do choices go when we’re done making them?” Anathema muses. “Huh. Never thought about that.”

Adam purses his lips together in concentration. “Well, they go away, don’t they? ‘Cause they weren’t made.”

“The answer is different depending on who and what you ask,” Aziraphale sighs into his tea. “They turn into what ifs. Regrets. Fears. Hopes. Dreams. They become malleable ground for demons and angels to work with. But that’s simply here, in this physical realm.”

He dislikes the weariness in his voice, the way it drags itself hoarse. But he’s exhausted himself with wild grief, with righteous anger, with the effort of keeping hope. 

He thought such matters were behind them and he’d grown complacent and softhearted. Love had made him tame, made him lax, and now he’s not sure he can keep up. 

He braces his elbows against his knees, staring into the fire. He inhales deeply, breathing in the fragrant steam of his tea.

“The closest approximation humans have for this is the idea of Purgatory,” he murmurs. “Truthfully, the convergence and divergence of choices fixed at one point when a soul is cast from its form is the last chance for humans, a place for them to come to God and say, I choose poorly, I regret, forgive me.” 

“And _does_ god?” Anathema asks shrewdly. 

Aziraphale looks at her and shrugs, a strange expression crossing his face. “My dear,” he says, as gently as he possibly can. “I’m afraid most can’t survive it and break.”

“Humans, that is,” he adds after a beat, as if to reassure himself. “I doubt any… celestial-natured persons have ever…” 

He recalls, with perfect accuracy, the way Crowley had snarled, _unforgivable, I am,_ as if it were a fact. His hands shake once, and he steels himself against the human tremor of his body. Crowley _is_ forgivable, eternally so. The fact that they survived, that they have this cozy lassitude means that, in some way, they are both forgiven. 

The world survived. He looks at it as a gift from God Herself, that she has allowed kindness and choice permeate into the world to seep and blossom and grow. This world is the gift of eons of slow-growing forgiveness and love, and Aziraphale will not abide by some wild-haired demons coming to pluck it from its roots. 

“So you’re saying,” Adam says clearly. “Somewhere out there, there’s a me who destroyed everything after all?” 

“There’s a chance,” Aziraphale says wearily. “It was always a fifty-fifty chance at that point.” 

“I don’t like it,” Adam says. “Rubbish. I think this all is rubbish, and we’re going to stop it so it’s nothing more than a bad dream for Mr. Crowley.” 

Aziraphale smiles, feeling the slow-growing bud break through the loam in his heart. He is exhausted, grief-stricken, and lost, but he is not alone. 


	8. belief

“If you find anything at all, or if there are  _ any  _ problems,” Anathema says sternly, squeezing Newt’s hands, “Ring the bell next to the candles and we’ll come back.” 

“Bell, got it,” Newt says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You three will be done before I even break out the big books. Don’t worry. I’ll have tea waiting.” 

Adam makes a noise in the back of his throat as Aziraphale steps off of the edge of the sunroom; Anathema breaks away from Newt. She takes Adam’s hand into her own, the charms on her wrists and about her neck chiming as Adam’s fingers lock around both hers and Aziraphale’s, a chain of strangeness that leaves a wake in reality behind them, like fingers through water. 

They follow Aziraphale off onto the lovingly set cobblestones that wind through the garden. Each is set with protective sigils that shine beneath the angel’s feet, magic shifting across their surface like oil on water. 

Adam and Anathema follow him, stepping in the same path as they cross from their own physical existence into something  _ other _ . From the sunroom, Newt watches them fade into fuzzy silhouettes, edges blurred like heat-smeared visions on the horizon. He turns away and settles himself amongst the various books and candles set out for him. 

Aziraphale brushes aside the wards he’d thrown up around the garden with a flick of his wrist, jaw clenched tight. Around them, the world trembles, swirls, like the surface of a soap-bubble as they step through the heavy-handed magic. 

“Oh,” Anathema breathes, sounding stricken. 

“That’s awful,” Adam agrees. 

They break the chain, clustering beside Aziraphale at Crowley’s feet. 

Roots shift, curling around Crowley’s arms and legs, creeping up over his chest in slow, heaving patterns. 

“It’s… breathing,” Anathema says. “The tree.” 

Aziraphale says nothing, jaw working as he tries to unclench it, but no words come. It’s worse than before, yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. It’s an awful sight, watching Crowley sink into the ground, into the mass of roots like he’s being decomposed. 

He kneels and slips a finger underneath one of the roots snaking up Crowley’s throat, hands shaking with anger. 

“He’s not dead yet,” he whispers. “I don’t understand why…” 

“Wait,” Adam says, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Don’t, that tree—it’s not hurtin’ him any. It’s fond of him, I think.” 

“What?” 

Adam scrunches his nose up, looking up at the arching branches thick with leaves and blood-red apples. “It feels funny. Like, like, plants feel stuff, if you think about it hard. Read a study that they like to be talked to in class, and there’s plants that curl up when you touch them. Anathema says they talk, and I believe her. Mr. Crowley says so too— made mum’s plants perk up and killed the neighbor’s. But they don’t feel like this, normally.” 

Anathema presses her fingertips to the tree, lips pursed in concentration. “It is… odd.”

Adam carefully steps forward and lays a palm to the bark, head tipped like he’s listening to something. He looks at Anathema, who looks up at the canopy over the rim of her glasses. 

“D’you think…?” Adam asks, question trailing off. 

“It’s possible,” Anathema says, digging in her pockets. Various charms and cards fall out, along with a novelty pen shaped like a whale, a few pieces of hard candy, and a box of matches as she pulls a pendulum out. 

“You said you couldn’t sense Crowley at all?” she asks. 

“No,” Aziraphale says, watching intently as Adam leans his head against the tree trunk. 

Anathema turns her palm upward, chain dangling between her fingers, eyes focused on the sway of the pendulum over Crowley’s root-encased body. 

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I…”

Adam closes his eyes and Anathema shifts her arm just so, looking towards the tree, then back. 

“Truthfully,” Aziraphale says, voice thick, “I never could manage finding him like he could me. I just…” 

“Freaked out,” Anathema finishes. “It’s only natural. How much celestial meddling did you two do with this tree? On top of what Adam had already done?” 

“Oh dear me, probably more than what’s proper,” Aziraphale murmurs, twisting his hands together. “Crowley had it growing like a weed, and I may have encouraged it to try to become a pear tree.” 

Adam and Anathema simply look at Aziraphale, befuddlement clear on their faces. 

“I like pears!” Aziraphale says, distress written on his face. “It was, we were just being silly—Crowley dislikes pears greatly, and, well. It was a bit of a game.”

“Well,” Anathema says as gently as she can manage, “I think all of that may have saved Crowley.”

“What?!”

“He’s…” she hesitates, then shrugs helplessly, gesturing towards the twisting roots, her pendulum swinging between her fingers. “The tree is… Especially magical. Even ley lines don’t put out this much energy. It seems especially sentient.”

“It’s protecting him,” Adam guesses, shrugging and knocking his knuckles to the bark. “He’s not really… here, but there’s something like him in there.”

“In the tree,” Anathema clarifies. “He’s in the tree.” 

“Nonsense!” 

Aziraphale looks up at the canopy of leaves and buds, mouth pursed in thought. He steps between Adam and the tree and presses his forehead to the bark, palms flat against its surface to either side of his cheeks. 

“Goodness,” Aziraphale breathes. “It’s his blasted telephone trick. I told him, it’s no good playing with electrons like that, that he’d get stuck as an ansaphone one day, and I’d—well, I said I wouldn’t let him out, but surely you know I would, right?” 

“Sure,” Anathema and Adam say at once. 

“Well, we’ll just have to, have to save what’s trapped in the tree’s essence, then guide the rest of him home from where it’s gone,” Aziraphale says promptly. “Right. That’ll be… well. Nothing compared to Armageddon, that’s for sure.” 

His voice cracks, wavers, and he presses his palm to his face, dragging it down slowly. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Well. Time to get to it. Do exactly as I say.” 

Aziraphale kneels in the damp earth, then settles himself to gently position Crowley’s head in his lap. 

Around him, Anathema and Adam step into action. Aziraphale directs them carefully, pointing to each crucial point for a ward, meticulously examining each and every placement, drawn rune, and candle color. 

(He’s not entirely sure how a perpetually screeching birthday candle will work for the summoning ritual, but it was what Adam brought along so he bites his tongue.) 

Finally, the circle is complete, each candle lit. Aziraphale sits with his back firmly to the tree, roots crawling up his shirtsleeves from where he has his fingers to Crowley’s cool temples. He swallows hard, trying not to remember the last time he summoned this much power at once to speak with someone. But that had been God, who never answered in the ways that he wanted, and this is Crowley, who always did. 

They’ll find him, and Azirapahle will bring back enough of him for Crowley to follow it home. 

“I don’t know if he’s gonna be able to see you,” Adam says regretfully, laying a hand against the budding apple tree. “‘M not that powerful enough on my own, without really using the whole… thing.”

“Neither am I,” Anathema says mournfully. “I wish I had Agnes’ power right about now, so I could tell you it’ll be okay, and that this will work right away.” 

“It will be enough to bring him home; you’re far more powerful than you give yourself credit for,” Aziraphale says firmly. “Don’t worry. Worry only about how we’ll be able to repay you two.” 


	9. pieces

Crowley knows the following: 

He’s been cursed, somehow, by someone, to repeat Armageddon. Every Armageddon. He knows that, somehow, somewhere, there are other universes than his own. He doesn’t know how or why he’s here, dreaming in the space between them, but he is. 

And he has to live in every single one of them. Maybe he needs to guide these other versions of himself to the right ending, Crowley does’t know for sure. He does try to, for the most part.

He also knows this:

He wants to go home, to his angel and their cottage and the world that has not ended. 

“Aziraphale,” he calls in the darkness between dreams. “I can’t find you, please, I have to find you—” 

* * *

Crowley keeps going. Again and again and again, the same thing happens. He wakes up in a body that’s his—but not quite his—and then the world goes to shit. Over and over. And over. And over.

He sleeps through one. 

There’s another where the Bentley is a Citron, which he hates, and another where it plays nothing but ABBA, the refrain of _here I go again!_ haunting him through each and every retraced step he tries to take. (He dislikes that as well, but at least the Bentley is still, well, the Bentley.) 

One where someone keeps talking about needing a towel for the oncoming destruction of Earth while he’s trying to get ragingly drunk to forget about the flaming bookshop. (In retrospect, he’s not sure that man was entirely… human.) 

A particularly strange one where both he and Aziraphale are somehow, inexplicably, the same person. One where they’re human. One where Aziraphale has accepted defeat and turned his bookshop into a library of sorts. Another where he lets Crowley sell plants there. 

There’s one where Aziraphale goes to Alpha Centauri with him. Another where Aziraphale refuses to speak to him after, and one where _he_ refuses to speak with Aziraphale after the bandstand. 

None of them are right. None of them are home. Not a single damn one. 

He misses Aziraphale so much, and not a single damn one of the Aziraphales he lives with, works with, fights with, walks with are _his_ Aziraphale. 

He’s starting to forget _his_ Aziraphale. The way his eyes widen and his face crinkles with every emotion, the small superfluous moments of delight. His hair, his manner of speaking, the quiet stubbornness that lurks underneath his eyes. He misses Aziraphale, _his_ angel, the one that lifted his wing in the Garden, the one that played cat-and-mouse with him for centuries, who could create a supernova with his love, who asked Michael for a rubber damn duck. 

He wants to see him. He wants to hear him. He wants, he wants, he wants… 

* * *

He wakes to find Aziraphale curled beside him, book in hand and cocoa steaming a hands reach away. The sheets are smooth, cool, and folded at their feet is a thick quilt. The light is orange from incandescent bulbs, not the blue-white of the new LED ones that everyone has slowly moved to, but Aziraphale is too stubborn to. 

There, there’s the window, ivy like a curtain swaying behind the glass. The edges of it all are slightly distorted, things placed just slightly off. The sheets aren’t the right color, the plants aren’t right. 

It’s almost home, almost, so close. A sound of longing escapes Crowley, a broken, desperate thing and he reaches out for Aziraphale like he’s drowning. 

“Crowley?”

The angel sounds alarmed; he nearly throws his book aside, fingers slipping into Crowley’s long hair. “My dear! What has you in such a state?”

Crowley presses his face tighter to the soft meat of Aziraphale’s thigh, fingers curling against the soft cotton of the angel’s sleep shirt. 

“Please tell me,” Aziraphale urges, cupping Crowley’s jaw. 

Crowley shudders, turning his head to Aziraphale’s palm. He’s told Aziraphale—not this one—before, and it didn’t end well. 

“I can’t.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and somehow, it’s different. There’s a weight to it that Crowley hasn’t heard in… centuries, really. “Crowley, tell me where you are.” 

Crowley sits up, hands cupping Aziraphale’s jaw. “...angel?” he whispers. “Angel, are you… are you really _my_ angel? _My_ Aziraphale?” 

“Crowley, please, I can’t stay here long,” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes glowing bright. Gold feathers out, following the lines of his face. “You’re between right now, I need you to recognize that.” 

“Between?” 

“Think, Crowley, think. Remember,” Aziraphale urges, cupping Crowley’s face and pressing their foreheads tight together. “Not the rubbish that wasn’t me, that wasn’t you. What do you remember?” 

Crowley curls himself up against Aziraphale, shivering like he’s in the throes of fever. He presses hard into Aziraphale, trying to mold ever hard line of his body into Aziraphale’s softness. 

Heat boils off of Aziraphale, and light pours from the gold cracks in his skin. “Crowley!” he demands, voice echoing. 

“I… I went into the garden to check on the wards, the apples were ripe. I got distracted by them. I leaned up against the tree… then, I-I felt the wards break, and then…” 

Crowley closes his eyes tightly, pressing his face to Aziraphale’s neck. “I can’t remember.” 

“I need you to listen to me,” Aziraphale whispers, and his body lurches against Crowley’s, fingers growing long, his bones cracking and melting, until a lion’s head nuzzles up against Crowley. Wings beat around them, stirring up the smell of incense and divinity. It burns Crowley’s nose. 

“You are lost in purgatory, Crowley, and I can’t bring you back myself. There’s a little bit of you that I _can_ take with me, a little bit that you _must_ follow home.” 

Aziraphale continues to nuzzle his muzzle against Crowley, and Crowley reaches up and tangles his fingers into the mane of white-gold fur. 

“I can protect you a little,” Aziraphale says, butting Crowley’s forehead with his snout. He touches one shining talon to Crowley’s chest, pulling something shining to the surface. “But you must make your own choices to escape.” 

“I can’t,” Crowley sobs, feeling weak. “I can’t, I can’t find you, I’ve _tried._ ” 

“You have more control than you think you do,” Aziraphale growls. He butts Crowley again. “Open your eyes. Stand. You must _not_ think that all hope is lost, you’re better than that, my incorrigible beast of a heart.” 

Crowley opens his eyes and finds himself in a sea of blackness, Aziraphale before him, lion-headed, taloned, four sets of wings beating, each covered in baleful, watery eyes. His feet are hooved like the oxen face that occasionally wavers in time with the blinking of those eyes, and Crowley recoils at the sudden darkness, hands grasping at Aziraphale’s eagle-taloned hands. 

“I made the wrong choices,” Crowley groans. “I knew that! Why now, why did She do this now! I thought this was over, I thought we’d been left alone, why, why did She _do_ this?” 

“It wasn’t God,” Aziraphale says. “It was a pack of demons, renegades who thought their Lord Beezelbub was in the wrong, softened by years of inaction. You _have_ chosen correctly. Try to remember those choices.” 

His body swells, glows, and starts to crack. He touches Crowley’s eyes with one golden nail, face morphing slowly—lion, eagle, ox, then, Aziraphale.

He presses his lips to Crowley’s forehead. “I can’t stay,” he whispers. “It’s taken so much power to come here like this, my love. Any more, and there will be no more of me for you to come home to.” 

“I need you,” Crowley whispers, falling to his knees. “Aziraphale, don’t leave me, I need you.” 

Gold tears fall from Aziraphale’s eyes, striking the velvet darkness around them, flashing ripples of light around them like mirages—Crowley can see them, like a montage of their life: Eden, Mesopotamia, Golgotha, Rome… They flash by like a path, stones in a creek to skip over, a spotlight through the darkness. 

“Every choice you made led us to each other,” Aziraphale whispers, leaning over Crowley. His tears strike Crowley’s face, burning his eyes, his lips. “Don’t look for _me_ , look for a world where everything survives, my darling. Follow that feeling of being _right_.” 

His light starts to fade, and Aziraphale starts to lose focus, like someone walking backwards in the fog. He reaches up and presses one talon to Crowely’s chest, light flowing into it from Crowley’s skin. “I love you most dearly, more than anything. Come home to me, choose to come home to me. I will pave the way for you.” 

And he’s gone. 

Crowley rests in the darkness for a long, long time. 


	10. between

Crowley doesn’t wake. Hours pass, and still he rests, unmoving in the cradle of Aziraphale’s lap. The candles flare, bright white arcs before they sputter out. 

Anathema wipes a grimy hand across her forehead, face pale. “That’s Newt,” she says, “It’s after moonrise.” 

Adam runs a hand through his hair, scowling. “We can go longer,” he argues. 

“No, no,” Aziraphale murmurs. “That’s all for today. Don’t burn your power out all at once—Crowley’d never forgive any of us if you two got hurt.”

“He would,” Adam says haughtily, despite wavering on his feet. 

“No,” Aziraphale repeats, the word redolent with power. The shimmering quality of the world shatters, letting in the cool night air, heavy with the scent of takeout. 

From the back porch, Newt waves, holding up bags of Chinese food. Aziraphale makes a shooing motion at Adam and Anathema, smiling in what he hopes is a soft, reassuring way. 

“Go on, I’ll be in in a few.” 

He watches as they trod towards the cottage, Dog happily bounding about his master’s feet. He feels the expression slide from his face as he turns his attention to Crowley’s body, teeth worrying his lip as he recalls the state he’d found Crowley’s soul in. 

“Oh my dear, you were so lost,” Aziraphale whispers, stroking Crowley’s hair and trying to ignore the still coolness of his body. “You’ve never failed to find your way to me, so don’t leave me waiting too long, my clever demon.” 

* * *

Bolstered by Aziraphale’s brief visit, Crowley begins to explore that dark place between the dreams—no, _worlds_. 

He finds out the darkness is malleable.

Just like on Earth, he can will himself a body of any configuration. He can will himself clothes, food, any sort of material thing he’d like—with a thought, it’s there. 

However, Crowley can’t seem to will himself home. He can get close: He can will little mirrors that revisit every mistake he’s ever made, every instance he’d thought, _o_ _h, damn, I should have,_ and then some. Times he hadn’t fallen, times he does, times Aziraphale does as well. 

He grows angry, trying to piece out the puzzle he’s left with. He wills pots and hammers and rocks and breaks every single window with furor, screaming in the darkness at God, at Satan, at himself, at the world, at Aziraphale, for giving him such vague clues to work with. 

When he’s done, he sighs to himself, wiping the tears and sweat from his face. “Where it all survives, huh?” he mutters, rolling up his sleeves. “All of it? Really. _Mngh_.”

Time to revisit the apocalypse, then. 

* * *

How many moving pieces does it take to make an apocalypse? A singular, successful apocalypse?

Depends on your definition of success. Most (the hosts of Heaven, the demons of Hell) agree that the barest bones of an apocalypse consists of three things: two armies, theologically opposed with a score to settle, an Antichrist, and a universe to destroy. 

Wham, bam, thank you for dying, man. 

There are some extra wheelhouses agreed upon by theologians—horsemen, signs and portents, beasts, raptures and the like. But technically, all those things are just icing. 

A cake is still a cake without icing. 

Now, if you were to ask one Anthony J Crowley, once Crawly, Serpent, once an angel of rank, there’s about, oh...

He’s at one hundred moving pieces and counting. 

He stopped counting somewhere along the lines. He’s immortal, made to contain multitudes and eras and all of eternity, but this... 

Well. He doesn’t think about it much. He used to, but thinking doesn’t change anything, it just drives you mad. And he needs every ounce of cunning he possesses, thank you very much, if he’s going to find his way back home. Aziraphale assured him that it was in his power, and damn it all if he’s not going to make it happen. 

He can do this. He can _do_ this, he just… has to figure out _how._

* * *

Where everything survives. 

_Where everything survives._

He repeats the words to himself over and over again, a litany like a worry stone, piecing over the meaning. 

The world? Their memories? Themselves?

He hops, skips, lurches across the surface of so many ideas, a rock bouncing across the placid surface of a lake. 

Their meetings, their words, phrasing—every instance, every moment of crossed paths, the meeting of eyes and minds and hands, all of it is key. 

It takes him a bit to get the hang of it all, dipping hands into memories and worlds and visiting his memories, every stumbled word and snort and smirking conversation, reliving every shared meal and wondering how he could have possible regretted _this_ , how could he have questioned _that_. 

How could he? It was all wonderful. Not a moment wasted, even the fourteenth century. 

(Ugh.)

What’s harder is the end.

He turns in the darkness, watching silver mirrors fall like drops of rain, a deluge to rival the flood—half are drenched red in hellfire, burning even through the inky black of his consciousness. 

Half are white, white, white, all hills singing and angels breathing in harmony, too many eyes and too many wings and too much justice. 

* * *

He’s smashed through half a millennia of the stupid mirrors before he drops one like a hot potato, fingers coming together with a snap.

“ _The book!_ ” he hisses. 

He forgot the bloody _book,_ the linchpin, the whole ball that got their asses rolling. He’d forgotten about the _book_ in the mess of it—without the book, he’s not been able to convince Aziraphale to go find Adam when it’s Adam. Without those blasted prophecies, it’s all been going wrong. 

He’s forgotten, how could he have forgotten one of Aziraphale’s _books_? The bloody witch, with her silly bike, and the book! The book, that led them to the true Antichrist, to Adam and Tadfield, that made the whole thing come together, that helped them trick their superiors—how had he forgotten _that_ book?

He steps into the nearest prelude to the end of the world. 


	11. everyday

“Say, angel,” Crowley asks, in the most nonchalant way he can think of. Which is loudly, with his chin propped up on his knuckles, after a round of inhuman amounts of alcohol. 

Aziraphale frowns at him, skeptical. “I shan’t do it,” he says without prompting. 

“Nnnononooooo, I’ll wear the dress, hussssh,” Crowley slurs, rolling his eyes. “We settled that fffffour bottles ago!”

“If you’re having second thoughts,” Aziraphale says, tipping his bottle towards his eye to peer inside, “I’ll have you know I look a fool in crinoline.”

“No one _wears_ crinoline anymore! That wasn’t the point! The point is I was going to ask you—”

“Was it dolphins again?” 

“No.”

“Oh. Well, do carry on.”

Crowley wants to be exasperated, truly, he does. But he can’t muster it as Aziraphale tuts at his empty bottle and decides that the best course of action is to steal one of Crowley’s. Their hands brush, and Crowley hates that it it undoes him, just a little. 

“You collect prophecy books, yeah?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale says, face flushed with pride. “I can’t believe you re-remembered!”

“I’m a demon, not a goldfish, besides I saved half of them in the Blitz, ‘course I _remember_ ,” Crowley snaps. 

Aziraphale smiles and gives a soft sigh that almost makes Crowley melt on the spot, half dreamy and half a quiet laugh. “Of course, dear fellow,” he says, reaching out to pat Crowley’s knee. “So what of it, then?”

“Wondering if perhaps you’d ever heard of Agnes Nutter. A witch?”

Aziraphale pauses, lips pursed in thought. “Is that the boy with the wand?”

“That’s Harry Potter, you prat!”

“One of yours, then,” Aziraphale mutters. 

“Well, _yes_ , but.” 

“But?” Aziraphale prompts, looking highly put out about being forced to think about pop culture. 

“I’d, er, overheard, that this Nutter witch, she made prophecies about the end of the world.” 

“That’s hardly special, dear fellow,” Aziraphale tuts.

“But that they were _right_ ,” Crowley continues, desperate. “You’d say if you’d heard of it, yes?” 

There must be something in Crowley’s voice that nudges Aziraphale forward, because he sighs softly, something fond crossing his face. He sets his stolen bottle aside and pats Crowley gently on the knee again. It’s a clumsy movement, but full of feeling, especially when Aziraphale’s hand lingers there, thumb tapping a small rhythm against his patella. 

“I’m a bit nervous about this too,” he admits with a small squeeze to Crowley’s thin knee. “But, I’m afraid you’ve… heard a bit of plot for some new novel and… Well, hope is not a bad thing to have, especially in times like these.” 

Crowley breathes out a slow breath, feeling like he’s been sucker punched. He can’t tell if Aziraphale is lying, just like he couldn’t tell he’d been lying all that time ago, during the first end of the world. 

“Right,” he says, “Hope. Don’t know her, Angel.”

He could _make_ Aziraphale tell him the truth. But then, it would ruin everything, and truly, what cost would it have on him? He’s never wanted to _make_ Aziraphale do anything. Aziraphale could tell Crowley the sky was chartreuse with those wide, guileless eyes of his and soft mouth, and Crowley would believe him. That’s just how Crowley _is,_ has been, will be, with Aziraphale. 

The thought sours on his tongue, churning his gut. 

“Don’t look so glum,” Aziraphale clucks. 

“You… You’d tell me if it was true, wouldn’t you?” 

If his voice comes out broken with desperation, Aziraphale doesn’t comment. Of course he doesn’t. He never does, not in worlds like this. Misery washes over Crowley whole, a tidal wave of grief and longing and pity. 

“Of course I would tell you the truth! I’m an angel after all!” 

“Oh, you lot lie all the time—tidings of great joy my left ballsack,” Crowley hisses. “Look how that turned out!” 

Aziraphale sniffs as he releases Crowley’s knee, rolling his eyes as he lifts his hands in placation. “Turned out quite well until all the, well. Crucifixion.” 

Crowley gestures wordlessly, and Aziraphale gestures right back, just as rudely.

“Oh, come off it, Crowley, without great suffering the world cannot know great joy. It’s all part of the—”

“Ineffable plan, I know,” Crowley sighs, yanking the bottle from Aziraphale’s hands before he’s showered with perfectly good wine. “Soon, the world won’t know anything at all.” 

“Ah. Yes, that’s… Quite unfortunate,” Aziraphale murmurs, dropping his head into his hands. 

* * *

Crowley stands in the black space, watching as different mirrors speed by, each one leading to the same end: Armageddon happens, and awful things happen to one or both of them. 

The book exists in none of these. 

He sighs, rolls up his sleeves, wills his form into what he needs, and takes a step into the 1600’s. 

* * *

“Late, yee are,” Agnes says, scowling at the towering nun at her door. 

“Pardon?”

“If I’m to let the devil in, at least be punctual,” Agnes continues, giving Crowley a dissatisfied once-over. 

“I’m not _the_ devil,” he huffs. “Just an ordinary nun, teaching women the good word.”

Agnes clicks her tongue and steps aside, gesturing inside the small cottage. “If yee teach me any good words at all, it will be a miracle.” 

Crowley grins, a thing that has far too many teeth to be quite human, eyes glinting behind the smokey crystal of his glasses. “Well, I happen to have dabbled in a few of those myself.” 

“Then do enter, serpent, for I expect many miracles to take place,” the witch says with the certain sort of wry grin that means Crowley will be heartbroken after all of this is said and done. 

* * *

He takes to Agnes almost immediately, like he’d taken to Eve and Aziraphale and Anathema, like he takes to the cleverest, most precocious of the humans. 

He never asks how she knows these things—in fact, he’s sure if he ever did, she’d look him in the eye and laugh. All he’s concerned with is keeping up with the whip-crack speed she sets for their lessons, the way she insists on trying to prod her stodgy neighbors into caring for themselves. 

(“You can’t just tell people to do yoga, they don’t know what it is.”) 

“You should write a book,” he says, as casually as he can, leaning up against the back door of Agnes’ cabin. He gestures towards her, eyes flicking down to her belly. “For your daughter, and theirs.” 

Agnes snorts, not pausing in the way she grinds the pestle into the foul-smelling poultice she’s concocting. “Aye, and is that how yee gave the apple away, just ‘do this’ and nothing else? They say the devil is sly, but alas, he is stubborn and wrong-footed.” 

Crowley splutters, pushing himself off of the wall. “Now, see here,” he says, choking back laughter. “I never claimed to be _the_ devil.” 

He steps over to her table and leans his hip against it. “But I’m serious, you should.” 

“I started a fortnight ago,” Agnes says. She reaches into her apron and pulls out a small slip of paper. “Thine angel will be in the new world.” 

“Literally or figuratively?” 

Agnes smiles. “Who can say? The only person who knows thine heart is thee. I’m only sorry that I cannot be the one to repay all thine favors, Demon Crowley.” 

Crowley takes the slip and tucks it into his habit, curling his fingers around her hand. “This is going to be the last time I see you, won’t it?” 

Agnes nods and squeezes his hand tightly. “Don’t fight too hard,” she says. “The things yee look for shall come to pass. And tell that silly girl of mine that if she hadn’t burned the book, her marriage would have been much smoother.” 

He leans forward and wraps his spindly arms around Agnes, laughing. “That’s the thing, she won’t listen.” 

* * *

After that, it feels like everything slips back into some sort of order. It’s not like he knows what’s in the book anymore than he knows exactly what anyone is thinking at any given time. But it bolsters him, pressing him forward as he keeps stitching together a dream that seems close to real. It’s like he needed a reminder that he didn’t just choose to divert Armageddon because of Aziraphale, but because he genuinely liked the planet and the people on it. 

He starts to see a road forward, a glistening curve that makes him think of the way Aziraphale’s hair will gleam, backlit by the sun, of the way the light of their cottage shines in the deep morning fog. If this is what Aziraphale meant by guiding him home, Crowley is happy to follow it forward. 

It’s not perfect, but it’s something. He plays his roles, nudging and inching forward. There’s still something missing, something that keeps him from clawing his way back into his own life. Sometimes, he gets desperate and discouraged and he refuses to step back into the endless hopscotched worlds until he can figure out why it’s not _right_. 

Sometimes, he’s not the one who throws off the entire thing. 

Sometimes, Aziraphale, the blessedly infuriating creature he is, throws all of Crowley’s careful arrangements straight into the bin, and Crowley, the weak desperate thing _he_ is, can’t help but hold on because it’s _Aziraphale_ , and sometimes he can’t tell if what he sees behind those sea-glass eyes are sparks of _his_ Aziraphale, giving him something to hold onto. 

It’s the sixties again, and he’s long since realized that the thermos is part of it all, part of that swirling web of interconnected choices that can lead him back home. Everyday, he gets a little closer. 

Aziraphale’s hands shake violently when Crowley touches the thermos, and his heart aches, swells, and he wants to crack into a million pieces. 

Aziraphale’s lips part, then purse, his jaw working and Crowley tucks the blasted tartan thermos between his knees. 

“Should I say thank you?” he says, gently prompting Aziraphale into the heartbreak he knows is coming. 

_You go too fast for me,_ Aziraphale will say and Crowley will nod, acquiescent, because if they’ve made it this far, then nothing will happen between them until Armageddon, and it will burn Crowley alive, from the inside out, until this world fades away. 

“Best not,” Aziraphale whispers, his voice hoarse. 

“Can... I drop you anywhere?” 

Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s hand hovers on the car door, fingers poised against the handle, mouth parting slowly. He lets Aziraphale pause before continuing his script, this one memory blazing in his mind with the clarity that comes from grief.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he continues when Aziraphale doesn’t pick up the words Crowley turned over in his mind for so long. “Anywhere you want to go.” 

Aziraphale turns to him, the neon lights a halo around him as something behind his eyes breaks. His mouth trembles and he looks upwards, and he breathes out, a quiet sound that forms the words, _Lord, forgive me_ without any sound at all. 

He reaches out and cups Crowley’s cheek with a shaking hand, and it burns, burns, burns, but then Aziraphale’s mouth is mashed against his; Aziraphale’s fingers hook against his jaw and his thumb presses his shades askew, their noses an uncomfortable crush of skin-to-skin. 

As far as style and elegance goes, it’s the worst kiss he’s probably ever gotten from a not-actively-dying Aziraphale, but it’s the most surprising, the most fragile thing he’s ever been given by his angel. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice lurching on a sob. His breath is hot against Crowley’s face, his palms sweaty against his jaw; Crowley is pinned to the spot by it, one hand rising to hover mid-air, uncertain of what to do. “But I can’t lose you, I, you go so fast, you’ll leave me behind, and I—I’m lonely without you, you insufferable, intolerable, awful fiend, but I—”

His voice shakes and dies, and then his mouth is upon Crowley’s again, no less graceful than before. Crowley gently nudges Aziraphale’s chin with his own, guiding Aziraphale into a better position, his heart in his mouth. 

Oh, the world may end for this, this is not his home, this is not his stubborn bastard of an angel, but, oh… 

He’s a little closer, maybe. 


	12. breakthrough

They don’t get there in time. Skip. 

_“You can’t skip school on our behalf. A week will go by in a tick.”_

_“Promise us you won’t stay out here the entire time?”_

It’s not Adam but it’s not Warlock either, _again_. Skip. Skip. It’s Adam, but the Horsemen overpower his friends. He drives even faster the next time. 

_“He’s breathing, look!”_

It all lines up, but Uriel drags Aziraphale with them when the trumpets sound. No. Absolutely not. 

_“The roots are receding,_ **_now_** _, Aziraphale! **Go!** ” _

* * *

“You’ll burn the milk away if you stand there like that,” a voice sniffs behind him. 

Crowley blinks, then starts, fumbling with the whisk he holds in his hand. He doesn’t even remember slipping into a new mirror, doesn’t even remember trying to slot all the pieces together. 

He flicks his eyes around, mouth pinching down as he catches his own reflection in the thick glass—dark, dark hair and tan skin, the sharp lines of a tailored white button-down curve into neatly cuffed sleeves, and behind him, is Aziraphale, but he’s a different Aziraphale. One whose mouth is quirked in an easy manner that belies far more unbridled, dry bitchiness than he’s used to with ash-blonde curls that frame his cheeks and thick-rimmed reading glasses. And he’s wearing a sweater vest. One that’s _argyle_. 

He turns. 

And _slacks_. This is not his angel. 

“Uh.” 

But they’re in their cottage in the Downs, or at least, something that’s very much like it. The furniture is a bit more worn-in, and the garden outside the window isn’t exactly _his_. 

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale says. “Where did _you_ come from?” 

“Pardon?” 

Aziraphale sets aside his mug and reaches around Crowley to flick off the burner on the stove. “You. Since when do demons dabble in universe swapping? And _why_?” 

“I, wait, you, you know I’m not—?” 

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow, then tucks his fingers beneath Crowley’s chin, turning it this way and that. “It’s obvious, if you know to look for tricks. You resemble my partner quite a bit, but you’re not him.” 

“Angel,” Crowley croaks. Memories flood through him—the book, the Bentley, the bookshop, the witch and the boy, and the tarmac. How could he be so close? “The Apocalypse.” 

“Done,” Aziraphale says, tipping his head as if that will help his investigation. “All’s been quite quiet on the supernatural front for a while, dear boy. Have you stumbled in from your own?” 

“I, I’m lost,” Crowley manages to spit out through the thick feeling in his throat. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand, and finds it just as perfectly manicured as his own angel’s, if not a little leaner, a little broader. “I can’t find my way back home. We won, but then I got lost.” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Why?” 

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t know, I can’t remember.” 

“Hm…” 

Crowley clutches Aziraphale’s hand, frantic energy boiling up in him. “This is, I’m so close, but—”

“But what?” Aziraphale asks, mouth pinching when Crowley doesn’t answer. “Well you can’t stay, it’s not good for you, or for _my_ Crowley. This isn’t properly real, you know. You have a tie back to your own place in time, so just go.” 

Crowley shakes his head. “I, I can’t figure it out.” 

“Since when can’t you figure it out?” Aziraphale huffs. “You do loads of things without figuring it out or thinking about the consequences. All those memos to Head Office, driving through the M25. Trying to fight Satan with a tyre iron.” 

“Yes, but, it was different then—”

“Why? Why on Earth are you not the same now?” Aziraphale asks, “What’s stopping you?” 

“I don’t _know_!” 

Aziraphale tips his head, eyes flashing with angelic power. “Oh, you do. Please do admit it so you can get a wiggle on.” 

Crowley clenches his jaw so hard he sees spots, his body shaking. 

“Go on, your place isn’t here, all you’re doing is making your world wait for you while you’re dreaming,” he says. “My dear boy, just admit it already.” 

“I was afraid!” Crowley shouts, throwing his arms out wide. 

His wings unfurl, and around him the world fractures. The last thing he sees before everything is black is the very, very smug look on Aziraphale’s face as he waves him goodbye. 

“What are you afraid of?” 

Crowley whirls, and before him is Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale—he knows it like he knows his own breath and magic. He’s golden in the maze of mirrors, of these other worlds, of these branching paths his feet have walked backwards and forwards, wings outstretched and shining. 

He’s only ever heard Aziraphale sound so quietly hurt a few times before, and it shatters his heart to hear it. 

“Is it my fault?” Aziraphale asks, holding his hands out. 

“No!” Crowley shouts. “No, never, no!” 

“Have I scared you into thinking we don’t deserve this life we have? Tell me, and we can bring you back, we can make it right, together—”

“I said no! That’s not it!” 

“Those demons latched onto something, Crowley! Something left to rot and fester in your heart, and I can’t, let me help you,” Aziraphale begs, tears of molten gold streaming down his face. “Please.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” Crowley manages, reaching out for Aziraphale. “I’m afraid that you’ll be gone one day, and it will be my fault—I can’t bear it, I wanted you to be safe so badly that, that when they came for me, I…” 

His voice catches, mouth open as his mind supplies the words, then skitters violently away. 

“What happened? What did they do?”

“I don’t know—”

Aziraphale grabs his hands, and they burn with holy power. His hands feel a burst of pain, the searing sharpness of Heaven and the flaming sword as Aziraphale’s power surges through him. He feels his hands begin to blister, then char, his clothes catching fire as Aziraphale’s wings wrap tightly around them. 

Aziraphale was a warrior once, one who commanded troops in that first war against Hell, and it is with that power that he speaks: 

“ _Remember_! What did they do to you?!” 

Wings, hundreds, thousands of them, burst, shattering the world into a million diamond sharp pieces, images flitting through each shard. 

_“If you come with us, the Master will forgive.”_

_“What a load of shit.”_

_“Oh, not you._ **_Us_ ** _, he’ll forgive_ **_us_ ** _for failing for so long to capture you and give us the job that Lord Beezelbub has grown complacent in. Come willingly, and we won’t kill you for now.”_

_“Can’t say I like the ‘for now’, boys. I think I’ll pass.”_

_Crowley presses himself up against the bark of the tree even as the trio of demons converges on him._

_“Choose now, and we’ll leave that angel alone. If you don’t come willingly, we’ll_ **_make_ ** _you hurt him. We’ll make you rip his wings, pluck his eyeballs, scribe your name upon his flesh until he dies.”_

 _“Now,_ that _is no choice at all,” Crowley murmurs. His hands curl against the bark, eyes darting as if he were looking for an escape route._

“I was afraid they’d hurt you,” Crowley says. “That’s why you couldn’t find me, because I knew you’d look… This was never, this was _never_ a punishment—” 

_Roots curl up against his ankles, pulling him down as a demon lunges for his head. Branches bend as reality warps, Aziraphale’s wards breaking alongside his own. Leaves brush against his face like fingers, and the quiet rustle of leaves beckons as he twists._

_Everything is atoms, and what is he? Smaller than atoms, that’s what._

_“Ciao!”_

“I ran, tried to slip through the root system of the tree, away to, to escape for a moment, but when I did, they got me with a curse,” he whispers. “I _chose_ this, Aziraphale. Rather than hurt you, I chose to try to protect you the best way I knew how.” 

Aziraphale nods, pulling Crowley’s burning body tight to his own. “I’m so sorry,” he says, hand cupping Crowley’s nape, resting their foreheads together. “You’ve suffered, but you’re alive.” 

“Am I?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “And it’s time to come home.” 

And Aziraphale _tugs_ , just as the last of Crowley’s body burns in the holy fire, and he feels himself rushing, up through the tap root, up, up, past the root hairs and into the heartwood, spreading up, through the sap and the phloem, to the branches and petioles and all the fine little capillaries of the leaves, and out, out with the oxygen through the stomata where he expands, expands, expands like the universe. 

And just like it started with the snap of God’s fingers, Crowley snaps back into the tiny tiny vessel that is his earthly body. 


	13. awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand that's it, folks!  
> A huge thank you again to my teammates, Snailcities and Cheese for their support, goofs, and work! I'm so glad that someone took a look at my silly preview slide with the flaming broomstick and went "that one, yes, that one there"!

There are times when, as a witch, all Anathema can do is watch. Since she burned the books, the moments are more and more frequent—all she can do is let the noise of the world wash over her powers, silencing them like a blanket over a fire, leaving her helpless and frustrated. 

This is not one of those times. The world around them is quiet, only the distant sound of the beach audible over the preternatural quietness of this space. She can only watch as Aziraphale’s knuckles go white, his mouth parted on a slow exhale, waiting, grasping. 

It feels like she is looking at a portrait of the Madonna, with Crowley’s hair splayed out in Aziraphale’s lap, his body covered with a simple blanket. 

Adam is holding his breath. Newt is too, his cheeks pink with it. Silence fills the space between her ribs, and then explodes as Crowley gasps in a breath, his eyes flashing open like he’s been startled from a deep sleep. 

Aziraphale sobs in relief as Crowley gasps, over and over, chest heaving for air he doesn’t necessarily need. Dirt and roots and leaves shed off of his body, the metaphorical serpent emerging from winter’s hibernation den. 

Adam shouts and grabs Newt, shaking him with his own child-like exuberance; Dog hops at least two feet in the air in surprise. Anathema herself can only cover her mouth with her hands and try not to sob. 

If any of them say anything, she can’t remember—it all pales to the pure joy and love that radiates off of Aziraphale. None of them can say a thing that would measure up to the way he helps Crowley upright, cleaning his face with a miracled handkerchief. 

“My dear,” he breathes, abandoning the pretense of neatness to simply cup Crowley’s face in his hands, tears pouring down his face. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley—” 

Crowley reaches out, grabbing Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Angel,” he croaks. “Inside.” 

Aziraphale’s hands shake as he leads Crowley into the house, away from the tree and the garden and the salt-scorched patch of grass. 

He bundles Crowley’s shivering form up in his own cardigan, leaving the leaf-littered blanket behind, his hands grasping at elbows and shoulders. 

“Don’t crowd him,” Aziraphale snaps at the others as they start to follow. 

Crowley laughs, a barking sort of sound that sends dirt flying as he tosses his head back. Aziraphale flushes and beams, his eyes only for Crowley, just as they always have been. 

Crowley settles himself on the couch in the living room, patting the seat beside him. “Angel,” he murmurs. 

Aziraphale is beside him in seconds, and if Anathema aches to see the way they curl up against each other. 

“We can come back,” she offers. “Give you two some peace. 

“No, sit,” Crowley says, before Aziraphale can turn her down, surprising her and Aziraphale both. “I think it’s time you hear the whole story of how we met, yes? The whole thing, even the embarrassing bits we thought we regretted and bungled up.” 

Aziraphale blinks, then grins, his cheeks flushing shyly. 

“Well, I was on apple duty in the Garden, as you may know, and  _ he  _ was very wily, and  _ also  _ on apple duty,” Aziraphale starts, oblivious as Newt, Anathema, and Adam settle themselves in for a very long, very long-winded story. 

Crowley lays his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes closing as he beams. 

Anathema is no Agnes, but she doesn’t need a prophecy to know that it’s over, and all will be well. 


End file.
